The seemingly lifeless Lys kept on clinging to the Witch Queen's arm. Perhaps she was still fighting somehow, but there was little reason for him to assume anything other than that her desperate ploy had failed. That meant there was only one thing left to be done, but how could any of them hope to get close enough to the Witch Queen to put an end to her once and for all?

The Prince glanced over his shoulder at Gudrun. She was not a battlemage like Kolman. She had no way to defend herself, no way to fight back against the enemy, but neither did she have any way to escape. The Prince doubted he could keep himself alive under the circumstances, much less do so while protecting her.

Seeming to perceive what he was thinking, Gudrun asked him, "Your Highness, do you trust me?"

Perhaps there was no one else in their company who would be so inclined to put their faith in Gudrun's vision. Prince Wilfried would be lying if he said he had no doubts at all, but there was too much going on around him to fully trust his own judgment. Gudrun, who had been tracing the countless tangled threads of the future since the time ordinary girls would still be playing with dolls, was the perhaps the only one who could guide him through the knotted web of possibilities arrayed about him.

The Prince did not hesitate, casting all doubts aside and following Gudrun's voice. He stepped just as she said, as one of the Witch Queen's human guards charged right at him.

He swung up to block the guard's sword.

The guard's armor was more ceremonial than practical, so between the helmet and cuirass, his neck was wide open. The Prince turned his blade to cut, but as with the last time he tried to take a foe's head, it did not go as smoothly as he would have hoped and the edge of his sword got stuck in the neckbone.

The Prince put his foot on the guard's chest and pushed him away, wrenching his sword loose as he did.

He retreated a step to narrowly dodge the swing of a much bigger Ork guard.

The Prince took Gudrun's words to mean that he was not supposed to try to cut off the leg completely, especially after he just failed to take the last guard's head. Instead he only tried to lame the Ork by cutting the tendon, which was a much more manageable.

The Prince drove the point of his sword into the narrow gap of the cuirass' arm hole, luckily slipping the blade between the ribs without getting it caught. The Ork tried swinging back at him, but the Prince was too close in.

It went against all his training and instincts as a swordsman, but the Prince left his sword in Ork's body just as it reached for him with its free hand. Had he been a moment slower retreating, the Ork would have surely taken hold of his skull, and though it may not have had the strength to simply crush it in its grip, there was all manner of harm it could have inflicted on him with its waning strength.

Despite having the sword still stuck in its body, the Ork rose up and turned to the Prince. It raised its own sword aloft, but before it could swing once more, its eyes rolled back and it toppled over.

Gudrun clutch at the Prince's tunic, and told him, "Hold still."

A bolt of lightning streaked towards them and burst into a shower of sparks.

The Prince looked to where Kolman was and awkwardly gestured to express his gratitude before Gudrun delivered a new sword to his hand.

The Prince recognized the blade as having belonged to the first guard he fought. It was shorter than his own sword and he disliked the balance of it as he held it in his hand, but he did not imagine he would be granted the leisure to recover his sword from the body of the Ork and even an inferior sword was better than no sword at all.

Maus shoved at Sir Burkhardt to break away from him and the two men took up their guard positions.

Maus gave a bit of a contemptuous chuckle at this.

Taking on a more serious tone, Maus told Sir Burkhardt, "Surrender, Master. You're no match me, not as you are now. Throw down your sword. Don't make me kill you."

Maus glanced back to Lys, still in a swoon while clinging to the Witch Queen's arm.

Sir Burkhardt only scowled.

The ability to control one's temper was an essential part of a knight's discipline, but Maus always did have a talent for putting Sir Burkhardt's discipline to the test. However, all the times in the past where Maus had provoked Sir Burkhardt to anger were no more than pinpricks. This time, all the hate and rage that had been roiling in his gut all these years burst forth all at once.

Sir Burkhardt threw himself at Maus, howling with each stroke of his sword.

Maus parried each blow with little effort, sneering, "Is this the Knight Champion of Gotland? You might as well be swinging around a club like some Oger. I thought you were trying to kill me, Master. Have you forgotten your own teaching? 'Don't hit the sword. Hit the thing you mean to kill.'"

Furious as he was, Sir Burkhardt still had enough of his wits about him to feel the barbs of his pupil turning his own teachings against him. All he could do was glower at Maus.

Another witch apprentice bewailed the death of her companion before loosing a jet of flame from her hands. The flames broke against a barrier raised by Ysolde. Father Tristram would rather she not use her powers at all, but having her focus on defense was the less dangerous choice. Her mastery over magic was inferior to her brother, but if pushed to her full potential, her raw power might surpass his own.

The witch apprentice was not able to overcome Ysolde's barrier, but the Empusa leading them did not sit idly by. A dozen icicles the size of a man's arm manifested around her, taking aim at Father Tristram and Ysolde before flying at them like a falcon swooping in for the kill. Father Tristram knew that Ysolde's barrier would not be enough to repel this much stronger attack, so he struck the floor with his crosier to raise a second barrier.

The icicles struck all at once in an attempt to overwhelm the barrier. Had it been just Ysolde, or even possibly if it was just Father Tristram, the attack would likely have succeeded. Giving the gander a taste of the sauce for the goose, Father Tristram pointed his crosier at the Empusa and mimicked the apprentice's jet of flame. The flames struck a wall of ice the Empusa raised to defend herself. He could have tried a different attack, but instead he channelled more power into the flames in a bid to overcome her barrier. Taking down one of the Empusae would go a long way toward improving their odds of survival.

However, even as he seemed to be gaining the advantage, a sharp pain jabbed at his skull like a spike being driven into his brain. It was only because of his training that he was able to continue his spell, but the flow of magic was disrupted. Before the Empusa could recover, Father Tristram looked toward the source of the attack. It was that cloaked monstrosity that looked like a walking nest of snakes with its hand outstretched toward him. The priest was struck again, and again, forcing him to break off his spell and lean into his crosier to keep from falling to the ground.

This was a mindwalker attack and Father Tristram had to meet it as a mindwalker, but he could not fight both this creature and the Empusa at the same time. His mind raced to think up a plan. The creature had no intention of granting him such leisure, though. It sprang at him with alarming speed and when the two of them collided, he was consumed by darkness. He thought he heard Ysolde's voice, but perhaps it was just his imagination.

Tristram seemed to have fainted, much like Lys with the Witch Queen. Ysolde did not have to understand what was happening, only that she needed to free her brother from this abomination's clutches. In her desperation, she tried to tear him free with her bare hands, her fingers slipping on the creature's slick, wet skin. It simply flicked her away with one of its snakelike legs.

Ysolde fell to the floor, only to scramble back to her feet to make another attempt, however futile it might be, but before she could get back to Tristram, a shard of ice grazed her belly, cutting through her habit and the flesh underneath. It was a shallow wound, but the sight of her own blood stole the breath out of her lungs.

The one main witch--Ysolde could not remember what they called themselves--smiled cruelly as another shard of ice took shape in the air above her open hand. She had not been so confident only a moment before when Tristram was on the verge of overpowering her, but now she had the advantage.

He was not give any time to assess his surroundings when something like a large snake struck him, yet then caught him before he could be knocked away and coiled around his body. The astral body of the creature that attacked him was even more monstrous than its physical body, a gigantic mass of snakelike limbs that glowed a deathly green with a huge bulbous head and large flaming pearls for eyes.

If it had a mind developed enough to be a mindwalker, Tristram was not surprised to find that it could speak.

Father Tristram knew his own astral body was monstrous in its own right, albeit on a much smaller scale than this creature. The shape of the astral body was a combination of innate qualities, the type and magnitude of one's power and lastly, one's image of himself, not the reflection in the mirror but what the inward eye sees deep down in the heart of hearts. In Father Tristram's case, he took the shape of the devil he had always been accused of being, the devil he had always thought himself to be. It was enough to pique the curiosity of this creature.

The creature tightened its grip on Father Tristram. This was, of course, the realm of the mind, but the mind would interpret such actions through the lens of the body's experiences on the physical plane, and so it felt to Father Tristram as if he were being crushed.

Father Tristram's right arm was not caught in the creature's coils, and so he manifested the semblance of a sword wreathed in the same purplish flames as his astral body.

In his left hand, Father Tristram manifested a dagger that he plunged into the creature. Glowing red cracks emerged from where the dagger bore into the flesh. The creature moaned as the cracks spread throughout its body. Of course, the dagger was nothing more than a symbol, the cracks no more than a figure. Father Tristram wondered if the creature actually understood what was happening to it. The warp and weft of truth and falsehood, it said. It did not know the half of it.

When Father Tristram was dragged into the astral plane, he divided his consciousness between contending with the creature on the astral plane and weaving together a spell on the physical plane. He was thankful he was able to capture the creature's curiosity because it gave him the time he needed to strike unseen.

Father Tristram did not resort to any half-measures. The dagger he spoke of was not just a figure but an actual silver blade his order carried, not as mere ornamentation but as a tool for when the virtue of silver was called for. However, in this case, the dagger was used as a conduit to channel his spell into the creature's body. He could not say if this creature had the sort of soul that would be judged to face the fires of Hell, but if it did, it received a foretaste of that judgment as the most intense fire Father Tristram could produce roasted it from the inside out.

As its body seized up in agony, Father Tristram tore himself free of its hold before the flames inside burst form its mouth and eye sockets. He tried not to think of the one time he visited a port city in Criemus where a street vendor was selling grilled inkfish, but with the smell, he could think of little else.

Though still reeling a little from his ordeal, he knew his enemies would not grant him the courtesy of a moment's rest. He looked around to take in the situation and saw Ysolde being tormented by the Empusa from before, bleeding from several wounds.

Clutching at the cross around her neck, she whispered, "Lord, forgive me for not relying on Thy strength alone."

Realizing what she meant to do, Father Tristram cried out to her, "Ysolde, no!"

Ysolde looked to him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she said, "I have to, Brother. Even if I lose myself again, I know you will bring me back."

She bowed her head.

The Empusa mocked Ysolde, saying, "What's this? Surrendering, are we?"

Father Tristram would have run to her, but when he tried, the toll of wielding his two powers at once sapped his body of his strength. His legs buckled under him as Ysolde yanked at the chain of her cross to snap it. Laying the cross down on the floor, she then held her hand to her heart as she chanted in a low voice, "Black spirits of the Abyss, come to me. Take this body and make it your instrument once more. Forge me into a weapon to strike d my foes."

Ysolde then cried out in a loud voice, doubling over as the change came upon her. Her back swelled as the black wings sprouted up. The horns slowly curled out from the sides of her head. And when she lifted up her head, her fairy-purple eyes had turned red, the final sign of her transformation.

When she spoke, her voice was not her voice, or rather, her voice was just one among the many speaking through her. Men's voices, women's voices, and those that were neither one nor the other.

Father Tristram felt the pain deep in his chest from the dark power that had taken his sister. Even the Empusa was made to recoil from it.

Ysolde rose to her feet and stretched out her wings as those speaking through her replied, "Where? We would be more than happy to show you."

Ysolde seemed to disappear for a moment and then reappear right in front of the Empusa, seizing her by the neck and lifting her up as if she weighed no more than a kitten, despite the Empusa being taller and more sturdily built than the small, waifish Ysolde. Father Tristram knew that Ysolde had not in fact disappeared but rather was now capable of moving faster than the human the eye could follow. She was much stronger now, as well, and that was only the beginning of it.

Ysolde merely flicked her wing and the hapless apprentice was cut in half. The remaining apprentice screamed in horror, while the Empusa could barely croak out, "Damn you..."

Whether she knew or not, the Empusa only gagged as Ysolde tightened her grip.

In no mortal feat of strength, Ysolde twisted her wrist and the Empusa's neck snapped. The witch's body went limp and Ysolde cast her aside as if she were no more than a wet rag.

Given how easily someone as formidable as the Empusa was taken out of the fight, it might have been tempting to see if the ones possessing Ysolde would further thin out the enemies' ranks, but it would be foolish to grant them free rein even one moment longer. They were danger enough, but also if Bishop Friedman saw what had happened, he was not apt to show mercy. Father Tristram who could, and would, save her. He had done it once. He could do it again.

Holding up his cross, he commanded them saying, "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, ego tibi praecipio, exite ab ea!"

Ysolde turned to him and the voices chuckled.

Truly, it had not been easy the first time, but they were stronger now. No doubt there were more of them and this time they knew him better, his weaknesses, his doubts. They underestimated him before and it was their undoing. Now they would use every sly trick they could to chip away at his defenses.

They could see their words work upon him and that smile of scorn for Lys turned crueler still.

It was a feeble defense, but Father Tristram insisted, "I summon no spirits. I invoke no names."

There were few who have been convinced by such a claim and the ones speaking through Ysolde could not be counted among that number.

They continued to press him, asking, "What about your heart, Tristram? How do you really feel, deep down?"

Ysolde slowly stepped towards him. He continued to hold up his cross to ward off those possessing her, but she did not stop. Was his faith truly so weak to be of so little effect? Ysolde reached out to touch him, placing her hand on his chest. One heart to another.

For a moment, Ysolde's fairy-purple eyes returned and she spoke with her own voice.

But Father Tristram was not deceived. With his free hand, he reached into his satchel for a phial of holy water, casting it at Ysolde as he shouted, "Get back!"

Ysolde shielded herself with her arms and retreated as smoke rose from her body, but the effect did not last long, The voices returned, laughing, and when Ysolde lowered her arms, her eyes were red once more.

Father Tristram was not so easily cowed, however.

To emphasize the last point, Ysolde touched her lips with one hand while the other cupped one of her breasts. Seeing them puppeteer his sister so stirred anger in Father Tristram's gut. It may not have been the most righteous rage, but he held on to it for all its worth as he went on the offensive.

Seizing Ysolde's arm, he began to intone, "In nomine Patris..."

Ysolde smiled confidently. They had not reason to doubt this would be any more effective than the first time he tried to cast them out.

Father Tristram tore the cross from his neck.

He pressed the cross against Ysolde's forehead.

Ysolde began to struggle against his grip, but even if all the legions of Hell had been possessing her, Father Tristram would not have let go. He poured all of his soul into his voice, praying that it was more than his meager power in the words when he shouted, "EXITE AB EA! REDITE AB ABYSSUM!"

Lys was unable to save Loreley. All that remained was to either kill the Witch Queen or submit to her. Lys did not have the power or the will to do the former nor any intention of doing the latter. The least she could do was keep the Witch Queen occupied so long as she was still willing to talk.

Lys did not know how much help she would be if she joined in the fray, especially if it meant freeing the Witch Queen from any distraction to intervene as she would.

And so it would seem that the Witch Queen was not going to allow Lys to stall for time any longer. Lys found herself facing the same choices that she either could not or would not take as before. Strictly speaking, there was a third option she had not considered before, but that was because dying did not even enter her head as one of her choices. If she could not kill the Witch Queen and refused to submit to her, it was all that was left to her, but she did not want that either. Was there truly no other way?

Lys sighed. If there was nothing else she could do, she would gamble on the Witch Queen's claim that she and Loreley were truly one in substance and essence.

Rising to her feet, Lys spread out her arms to welcome what might come and said, "I am the daughter of Tancred Half-Elven. He would not have submitted to you and neither will I. Do what you must."

The Witch Queen frowned at her display of defiance.

The Witch Queen stood up from her throne and stretched out her hand toward Lys. Lys fought her instincts to recoil, to try to defend herself, even to close her eyes. If the woman before her was truly Loreley, she would not kill her. Lys would prove the Witch Queen's words with her life.

And so it appeared that the Witch Queen hesitated. It gave Lys a moment of hope, but that moment was shattered when an arrow struck the Witch Queen square in the chest. Lys and the Witch Queen both looked at the arrow in surprise, then looked to where it came from. There in the doorway of the throne room was Captain Hengist, who had finally caught up to them. By the time they were looking at him, he had already loosed another arrow. True to the fabled aim of the Horsemen, the second arrow landed little more than an inch or two from the first.

It was Maus, who broke away from Sir Burkhardt to run up the dais to the throne as the Witch Queen fell. He reached for the kit of potions he had used in Luten when he saved Lys, but he was not wearing it here.

He shouted for anyone who would listen, "Anyone! A healer! Come! Save the Queen!"

When the second arrow struck the Witch Queen, the fighting all about them ceased. However, there were none to answer Maus' call. He looked about desperately for anyone to come to the Witch Queen's rescue, then to Lys.

And still no one came. This was not the end Lys had hoped for. It seemed that there was nothing she could do but watch the life fade from the Witch Queen as Maus held her in his arms, but then she could see Captain Hengist draw back his bow once more. Foolishly, she knew, she put herself in front of Maus to shield him. This did not stay the Captain's hand, though. Before the arrow could pierce her through, however, she was overshadowed by the large body of Sir Burkhardt.

He merely grunted as the arrow struck him, giving Lys a look as if it had done no more than if she stepped on his foot.

They both looked to Captain Hengist, whose bow burst into splinters by a sweep of Corothas' hand. Then, as he had done to quell the Kobolds at Grau, he unleashed the same screech that made everyone go still and silent.

None of those who were left standing dared to challenge him on this. They all looked toward the throne. There, the dreaded Witch Queen, the Empress in the Southern Lands, who had vowed to put everything under her feet, breathed her last as the final flicker of life faded from her eyes. And yet, despite all her ambitions coming to naught, it would seem that dying in the arms of her beloved was reason enough to depart this world with a smile on her face. Grief was the part of those left behind as even those with cause to celebrate the Witch Queen's fall held their peace.